


Machine-made Goods

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fucking Machines, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light Bondage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Sex Toys, Sexual Inexperience, Sibling Incest, Sybian, Underage sexual content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: Response to SPN Kink Meme prompt: "Everyone knows you can't go hunting down an incubus or succubus without milking yourself dry first for safety's sake. John straps both of his boys down and fires up the fucking machines to make sure they're safe. Bonus points for the boys being embarrassed and trying not to look the other in the eye while it's happening.""Dubious" and "underage" are due to the characters being teenagers, rather than any explicit non-con behavior





	1. Chapter 1

Dad always times it so they arrive at Bathsheba’s in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the week.  Two o’clock on a Tuesday and the “gentleman’s club” is guaranteed to be near empty, just a few girls lounging around in the threadbare velvet booths.  They file their nails, tease their hair, flick through items on their phones, pay no attention to John Winchester and his sons as they cross the main room.  (Well, there are a few heavily made-up eyes following Dean’s ass, but Sam figures he’s not supposed to notice that). 

There’s a parking lot camera and another one under the awning (electric red eyes winking under the purple vinyl, _Bathsheba’s!_ in curling gold letters).  The video feed goes to a little monitor near the bouncer’s chair.  When a likely customer shows up, Floyd the bouncer nods to the DJ and, within twenty seconds, the music changes from Top 40 to something sultrier.  The girls move faster than anyone in four-inch Lucite stilettos should be able to. By the time that likely customer has made it into the room, there’s a girl at every pole, the most buxom gyrating half-dressed on the main stage, two more flirting with the bartender, who suddenly has a bourbon mid-pour.  The customer would be forgiven for thinking the party had been going on all night, never imagining that the show has just sprung to life just for him.   The transformation is amazing even when, like Sam, you’ve seen it a few times.  Once the Winchesters were there during a false alarm—a very nice Jag pulling into the parking lot, only to make a U-turn and head back down the gravel road toward the highway—and when Floyd made a slicing motion across his neck, it was as though someone had pulled a plug.  The music stopped mid-lyric; the girls grumbled and shrugged their way back into their robes and LSU sweatshirts; the bartender even poured his liquor back into the bottle.   Of course, the circus is in town only for paying customers.  Not for John Winchester and his boys.  They’re friends of the boss, alright, but it’s not the kind of friendship that puts dollars in g-strings.

Dean says Daddy used to prepare him by hand but for the last few years, since Sam has been old enough to need to worry about succubi, they’ve always come to Bathsheba’s before crossing into the Delta.  A necessary precaution, Dad says, because this area is the most fertile (in both senses) ground for succubi and incubi.  “Only a fool’d cross into the Delta without milking himself dry,” Dad has said.  And John Winchester didn’t raise no fools.  He had, on the other hand, done a very valuable favor for Floretta Babineaux, who had inherited Bathsheba’s from her daddy (who might have been her sugar-daddy as well, if rumors are to be believed).  Something involving a woman scorned and her sister, a voodooienne.   A voodoo curse in the Delta is invariably bad for business, but the Winchesters had taken care of it quickly and discreetly. Madame Floretta had agreed to let them stop by now and then as part of her payment for services rendered. (Sam has only met her once, four or five years ago, before he’d even had need of her premises.  His half-formed memory involves lots of floating scarves, heavy perfume.  “Call before you come,” she’d told John while surveying Sam and Dean. “And come early: I can’t be seen to have boys.  There are other clubs for that.”)

Dad leads them past the bar and the stage, around the empty tables and the pole-dancing platforms, to the back corridors where the private rooms are.  There’s a faint tang of bleach when he first pulls aside the curtain, though it is quickly subsumed by the smell of incense and potpourri.  Madame Floretta may run a strip club, but it is an immaculately clean strip club. 

“Take off your shoes, boys.  No sense in dragging the bayou in with you,” Dad grunts.  Dean immediately starts working on his boots.  Sam dares to hesitate for a second, peeking around his father to see the room. Dim sconces set in the dark velvet blousing the walls, a few cushions strewn around on the thick carpeting, two machines.   They look like saddles—wide, low leather humps set into mounds of soft fabric—except for the improbably veined dildos mounted on their backs. And those dildos definitely look longer and thicker than Sam remembers from their last trip through the Delta.  He feels a heat creep up under the collar of his t-shirt and ducks down to tear at the laces of his sneakers.  Dad leaves his boots on; he stays just long enough to kneel down and punch some numbers into the keypads on each saddle’s flank.  Then he stands.

“Right, then, I gotta go see Madame Floretta,” Dad surveys the little room again.  “Three times, at least.  This is dangerous territory.”  He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a tube, hands it to Dean, reaches into his jacket and comes out with a fistful of dark fabric.  “Take care of your brother. Don’t forget the ties.”

The heavy curtain falls back into place when he leaves. Sam can only distantly hear the DJ through the thick walls and plush fabric.  They could be miles away from Bathsheba’s main room for all the evidence there is. Miles away and all alone.

Dean unbuttons his flannel shirt, pulls his t-shirt over his head in a way that leaves his hair a little mussed.  It’s like he doesn’t even particularly care, Sam thinks, like this is just another chore you do to prepare for haunted territory—clean the rifles, stock up on rock salt, shoot your load. 

“C’mon, Sam,”  Dean says, waggling the tube of lube.

Sam shakes his head stubbornly.  _Take care of your brother_.  Like this is Sam’s first time. 

“Suit yourself, but Dad said three times ‘n I think these are bigger than last time.” Dean studies the machines for a second, then kneels down between them.  He coats two fingers in viscous, odorless slick.  They may buy store-brand everything, but Dad spends money on the lube. Can’t be too careful with succubi, he says.  Dean dabs it strategically on the nearest dildo, works his way up to palming it, the wet sound audible in the near silence as he jacks the silicone cock. Sam watches his brother’s big hand, thick fingers, his gun-calloused thumb working over the round head.  It feels strangely intimate to see the nape of Dean’s neck, vulnerable where he is leaning over the machine, working carefully. He feels himself stir under his jeans.  Floretta has very…life-like accouterments.  As the lube starts to warm and gleam, Sam can make out thick veins molded into the silicone, a ridged foreskin nearly larger than life. 

“Gonna do yours, okay?” 

Sam shrugs as Dean switches his attention to the other machine.  “Whatever.”  He peels off one sock, then the other.  The carpet is stupidly plush; Floretta must have them in the VIP suite.    He stares at his toes, pale against the grey sheepskin he’s standing on.  There’s the click of the lube cap.  A jingle from Dean’s belt buckle. A hitched breath, a quiet _ah._   Sam wassn’t going to look, but he can’t resist: his eyes snap to the side.  Dean has kicked off his jeans and tucked himself into the corner of the room, his face hidden in the crook of the arm he has propped on the wall.  His thigh gleams where he’s absentmindedly wiped the lube off his hand.  Sam can’t see how he’s touching his own dick, if he works it with the same thorough strokes he’d used on the dildos, but he catches a flash of silver as Dean’s hips move.  A plug.  Dean had offered him one yesterday, as casually as a stick of gum, when they’d turned south from Nashville and started toward incubus territory.  Sam had refused—it’s embarrassing to think about these things until it’s absolutely necessary.  Now, considering the girth of Floretta’s machines, he wonders if that had been a mistake. 

Dean’s hand leaves his cock and one foot leaves the floor as he reaches between his legs, fingers seeking out the plug.  He gasps, surprisingly high-pitched, when he starts working it free.  Dean’ll be eighteen next birthday, and he looks it: broad shoulders, strong back, long thighs, muscled ass.  Sam shouldn’t be looking.  Isn’t looking.  Won’t look.  He occupies himself with his belt buckle and with easing his damp boxers over his thickening cock, which snaps up to his belly as soon as he frees it from his clothing.  He doesn’t touch himself, though.  This is a precaution, not a pleasure.  

“Your turn,” Dean says.

“I can do it.”  Sam holds out his hand for the lube and only looks at his brother when it isn’t forthcoming.  Dean is standing there as comfortable as if he were clothed, the familiar cocky slouch only enhanced by his actual cock, thick and curved and hanging just a little to the left, as Sam remembers it usually does. 

Dean is looking at him with a skeptical expression.  “You gonna leave your shirt on?”

Sam shrugs, mulishly.  “Might.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean says again and while Sam is distracted rolling his eyes, he grabs Sam’s hip and spins him into the wall. 

The velvet is soft under Sam’s cheek. “Get off me, jerk.   I said I can do it myself.”

“Know you can,” Dean’s cool, lube-wet fingers are stroking a little circle in his lower back, just where his spine meets his ass.  Smooth and steady. It’s surprisingly relaxing.  “I know you can.  Not your first time at this rodeo.  But I can do it better and Dad told me to take care of you.”

Sam huffs.  This is ridiculous.  They’ll be here all day at this rate.  “Ok.  Fine.  Whatever.”  He doesn’t mean to make the job easy, per say, but somehow once he gives his grudging permission, Dean’s two fingers slip right down between his asscheeks and Sam finds himself arching back.  He’s on his tiptoes at one point, all but presenting his hole to his brother. It should be humiliating, but Dean doesn’t tease, not even when Sam realizes those needy little whines are coming from _him_.  Doesn’t say a word.  Just circles his hole with one lubed finger until Sam slowly realizes that finger is inside him, along with another.  He doesn’t even recall the sting of penetration, just Dean’s strong arm around his waist, holding him still, and the smoky scent of the velvet.

“Ok, good to go,”  Dean says at last, giving Sam’s ass a quick slap.  He wipes his lube-sticky fingers on the tail of Sam’s shirt and that was his last clean one and he is such a bitch.  Sam tells him so, but Dean is already sauntering over to the pile of clothing he shed ten minutes ago _._ The dark fabric Dad had handed him turns out to be long, wide ribbons.

“Seriously?  That was one time!” protests Sam.  And in his defense, it had been his first time at Bathsheba’s and it had been _intense,_ okay? He hadn’t been trying to escape: he’d gotten the birds-and-bees-and-sex-monsters talk, understood why he had to be milked dry for his own safety.  But understanding is one thing when you’re in the backseat of the Impala and you just want your Dad to stop talking about _ejaculation_ and _lifegiving seed_ before embarrassment makes you spontaneously combust.  It’s another thing entirely when you’ve already cum harder and faster than ever before. Cum twice, and the mechanical dick inside you is pounding at your prostate.  Sam had just needed a little break, that was all.  No need to tie him up.  He thinks Dean agrees with him.  After all, last time they’d passed this way, Dean had “forgotten” to tie Sam.  This time, Dad is making examples of them both.

“Dad says, Sammy,”  Dean’s voice is not unsympathetic, but he doesn't let go of the fabric. 

“Fine!” snaps Sam and he shoves his wrists out so Dean can bind them.  It’s more symbolic than anything: Dean leaves plenty of slack and the ribbons are nothing like the quarter-inch rope Dad could have brought if he really meant business.  Still, Sam resents being reminded of how poorly he'd acquitted himself that first time. 

“Which one d’you…?” Dean nods toward the machines.  They face in opposite directions; one looks at the mirrored wall with the door, the other at the narrow banquette along the velveted back wall.  They’re about three feet apart, angled away from each other.  They’re meant for a show, Sam realizes.  Arranged so a patron can lounge on the banquette and watch the ass of one of the girls from the front room and the tits of another, and see the whole thing reflected in the mirrors. _Sybian,_ related to the word _sybarite:_ a pleasure seeker. The thought makes his cock twitch. 

“Doesn’t matter to me,”  he tries to sound disinterested, but he can feel the first beads of precum welling up.  Sam pads over to one machine, puts his foot on the leather saddle, tries to rock it.  The machine doesn’t give an inch.  He kneels astride it. If this weren’t such a weird experience, he thinks, he’d like the way the leather feels on his balls.  He’s still mostly bare, doesn’t yet have a thatch of brown-gold curls like Dean. How had Daddy even known that he was starting to wake up hard, that it was time to take precautions against succubi? 

Dean loops the wide ribbons around Sam’s ankles, leaving about a foot of slack between the secure knots.  Sam figures he could get himself up and off the machine as long as the motor isn’t running, but it would take some coordination.  Realistically, he’s not going anywhere until he’s cum the prescribed three times.


	2. Chapter 2

“Should I…?”  Dean let’s his fingers trail up Sam’s calves, but stop at his knee. 

Sam doesn’t particularly want to ask for help, but he also doesn’t want to lose his balance with his hands tied.  “Yeah, okay.” Dean helps him balance, one hand under his arm and the other cupping his ass, then touching his hole.  Sam feels himself open against his brother’s fingers.  The big silicone cock dwarfs his own, but Dean’s done an excellent job with the lube and Sam takes the head with only a little resistance.  “Good boy,” Dean says quietly, patting Sam’s thigh before he stands up. Sam has to bite his lip to keep from smiling.  It’s dumb, not like he had any choice.  But Dean's compliments are rare enough that he treasures them.

 Sam tugs at his bonds. “I don’t see why—”  Sam begins, prepared to argue about his bondage again, but he’s interrupted by a groan from Dean.

Sam had sworn he wasn’t going to look, but he does.  His brother is arched forward, strong thighs clamped around the dark leather of the saddle, biting his own lip.  His eyelashes flutter and when he opens his eyes, it takes a moment for them to focus on Sam.  He ducks, actually a little embarrassed.  “Sss-sorry.  Bigger’n I thought.” And then he rolls his hips experimentally, an erotic, fluid motion that makes his lashes dip again.  “Unngh, fuck! That’s…good…”  He’s talking to himself now, easing himself back on the dildo like Sam is not even there.

Sam figures he’d better take advantage of Dean’s distraction. He digs his fingernails into the saddle leather as he works himself lower.  He’ll _never_ tell Dean this, or Dad, but this part is his favorite.  He likes opening, likes the dildo going where Dean has opened him.  He likes the thought of Dean’s fingers inside him.  _Gentle_ is not an adjective most people associate with Dean Winchester.  Neither is _careful._   But Dean is both of those things when he holds his brother and Sam likes knowing that secret. 

Sam has to stop after a few inches: he suddenly catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—eyes wide, chest flushed.  He knows what he looks like.  He licks his lips.  His cock is full and bobs eagerly. He swivels his hips to imitate Dean’s motion and it opens him up so beautifully. 

“Yeah?” Dean growls and Sam realizes he must have moaned when the big silicone cockhead skated over his prostate.  He should be ashamed.  Ashamed to be here, spread like a slut on a fake dick; ashamed that his family does the kind of weird, filthy work that they do; ashamed that his brother is seeing this.  But what’s the use of shame?

“Yeah,” agrees Sam.

“I’mma start, ‘kay?” Dean slurs, and they’ve done this before, together, two or three times, so Sam knows how Dean’s diction gets sloppy when he’s really aroused.  It never takes long.

“Uh-huh.”  Sam’s tries to keep his eyes fixed forward, but he can’t help but see Dean’s back reflected on the mirrored wall.  Dean’s whole body spasms, his head going back and his thighs tightening visibly, when he flicks the switch and the machine’s motor growls to life.  Sam wants to curl up behind Dean, lay his cheek on his brother’s shoulderblade, put his fingers in the divots between his ribs, feel how deeply Dean has to breathe as the huge mechanical cock starts to work within him. Instead, he runs the fingers of his bound hands along the saddle until he finds the switch. He's already stretched, already feels himself clenching and fluttering around the silicone.  Three times, no less, or the succubi will be on him like hyenas on meat.  He starts his own machine.

Daddy had programmed the controls and it starts slow, a vibrating that Sam feels in his thighs and hips well before the fake cock starts to pulse. It’s big, so big, even when it is barely moving.  Sam is vaguely aware of his fingers in the sheepskins on the floor: he must have tipped forward, trying to keep the cock from hitting his prostate head-on.

Dean has done the exact opposite: leaned into the power of the machine.  Sam can hear his brother’s breathing speeding up— _huh, huh, huh_ —as the mechanical whine increases. A gasp, an “Oh, fuuck,” and then the animalistic grunts that means Dean’s cumming. 

Sam squinches his eyes shut, digs the nails of his bound hands into the leather that covers his own machine as he feels the motor rev up.  He won’t look, he’s not looking.  He doesn’t need to look to imagine the lazy slope of Dean’s body as it uncurls from his orgasm.  With his hands tied, he can’t cover his ears, so he hears the low chuckle Dean huffs out. 

“Was a good one, Sammy,” Dean reports, voice gravelly.  “You go yet?” as casually as if they were shooting hoops.  Sam shakes his head tightly.  He doesn’t trust his voice—it had started to break and squeak right around the time he’d begun waking up hard beside his brother in their motel bed. It’s mostly evened out since then, he feels like he can’t get enough air, his breathing synched with the machine working his ass.    He feels the warmth in his belly bloom, his balls tighten.  The vibrations move up through his pelvis, settle low in his stomach. He looks at the boy in the mirror, swaying on his mount, glazed eyes, frantically grinding hips.  He hangs his head and lets it happen.              

Sam thinks there were four long spurts, maybe five.  He automatically tries to count, even through his pleasure, because the whole point is to make sure he’s dry and therefore no temptation to the Delta’s flock of incubi.  When he opens his eyes, he can see he’s got cum all over his belly, both thighs, spatters on his chest and the ribbon that binds his hands. 

“Six.”

“Hunnhh?”  Sam’s mouth is so dry the sound is nearly meaningless.  His bones feel like jelly, like he can barely control his limbs.  Somehow, his head rolls on his shoulder until he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye.  His brother has melted onto his elbows and knees, his hips rolling lazily.  Their machines have slowed, Sam realizes.  They must be synched, with Dean’s just a few minutes ahead of Sam’s. 

“Si-ix,”  Dean’s voice catches on a particularly deep thrust.  “I counted.”

“Oh.  Uhm.  Thanks?”  Sam feels himself blush to think his brother had watched him lose control.          

“Yer’a beast, Sa-ammm,”  Dean gives him an encouraging smile but his eyes have unfocused and his words slip.  Dean doesn't need much priming, Sam recalls: he cums hard and fast and frequently.  Last time or the time before, he’d pumped out five orgasms in the time it took Sam to do the requisite three, and he’d glowed afterwards, looked like he could have gone for a few more.  His brother’s hips hitch against his machine: it’s hard to say if he’s being fucked or doing the fucking.  Sam wonders if maybe the next time they come, if Dean’s eighteen, if maybe he’ll go with one of the girls out in the reception room.  Maybe Sam will be on his own in here while Dean spills his demon-tempting cum into one of the girls who watch his ass as he crosses the room.  He’ll take her in one of these quiet rooms.  Or perhaps she’ll take him.  Sam understands that is possible, although he’s fuzzy on the mechanics.  She’ll use a big fake dick, like the one that has Dean squirming and spilling right now.  And he’ll make the same noises, the almost-pained whimpers, the needy sounds that Sam wants to lick right out of his brother’s mouth.

Sam's second orgasm is long and slow, sensation lapping  from his bound ankles to his knees, making his thighs quiver so he can’t even ride the big cock, he just has to take each thrust.  Three spurts this time, the last one watery and clear.  Sam counts and tries to focus.  He feels dizzy.  Too hot, even in the aggressively air conditioned club. Next time, if Dean goes with a girl, Sam will still need help: someone to tie the knots, someone to thumb lube into him.  Dean will help.  Dean will make him ready, Dean will never leave him.

Sam watches Dean’s third and fourth orgasms shamelessly.  He doesn’t bother with mirror reflections or side-eye glances.  He turns his head and stares, frankly, as Dean simultaneously jerks himself off and pushes himself onto the relentlessly moving machine cock.  He sees how Dean's ass clenches as he rides, how he pinches his own nipples, how he works himself so hard he is shining with sweat by the time the last orgasm leaves him shaking and mewling and dry, with just enough energy to flick the switch and silence his machine. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean pants, sounding weary but satisfied.  He stands shakily, like he’s not sure his legs with keep him upright, whining as the machine leaves him. In the mirror, Sam can see his puffy hole start to close.  “Oh, man, I should write those succubi a thank you card. Right, Sam?  Sammy?!”

Sam has felt the machine between his legs powering into the onslaught that his brother has just experienced.  But he can’t…he can’t.  He can’t stretch any more; he’s already so full.  His hips ache.  He’s sweated through the t-shirt he refused to take off; he can see his nipples through the damp fabric.  He needs to touch something safe and solid, but his hands are still tied, so he does the best he can: when Dean stumbles upright in the narrow space between the two machines, Sam sways against him.  It lines the relentless dildo up with his prostate, but Sam doesn't care.  He needs Dean. He presses his face to Dean’s thigh, kisses his skin, nuzzles his balls.   Lube and musk and cum and Dean, the smell and taste of him.  He wants to take Dean’s soft cock into his mouth and Dean must be so sensitive, but he lets Sam do it anyway. He even reaches down to cradle Sam’s head, comb through his hair as Sam suckles. 

Finally Dean slips himself out of Sam’s seeking mouth and drops to his knees.  “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

“Needa cum,” Sam can hear the desperation in his wobbling voice.  His balls feel like they're going to explode, but he can't let it go, all that hot boy-cum bottled inside him. It's so easy for Dean, so beautiful.  “I can’t…too much.”

“Shhh,”  Dean kisses his forehead, brushes his sweaty bangs off his face. "You got this.  One more, just to be safe."

"Nnnn," Sam can feel tears prickling the corner of his eyes. He wants to turn off the machine, silence it, and just curl up against Dean's broad chest.  But he also desperately wants—needs—to cum again.  The desire keeps rising and cresting, rising again inside him.  Never enough.

"C'mere, just push back.  Let it in a li'l deeper..."  Dean's voice is rich and soothing, torn from his own moans, but Sam is shaking.  His body won't do what he asks.

"Can't!"  Sam wails when he feels Dean's hands leave him, but then Dean is back, settling behind Sam, his hands on Sam's thighs, grounding him.

"So tight, Sammy," Dean murmurs, and Sam can feel his bother's breath on his sweaty nape.  "Gonna make some guy ver' happy wi' that tight hole'a yours."  Sam can feel Dean's cock against his lower back: he's soft, soft and empty, but aroused, if his sloppy accent is anything to go by. Aroused by Sam.  Dean's hand slides over Sam's juddering hip, cups his cock.  "C'mon.  Let it go."

 Sam tries to rock backwards, gains Dean's mumbled praise.  Again.  Again.  The machine's unerring cockhead is pummeling his prostate and he's pushing for more.  Dean's other hand is under his sodden shirt, plucking his nipples until Sam has to buck forward to get more of that sensation.

"Hear 'at?" Dean rumbles and Sam moans quizzically.

"Tighten up 'gain," Dean instructs, his palm coming to rest on Sam's low belly.  "Right here."

This time, Sam does hear it: the way the machine slows and whines when he clamps down on the cock inside him.

"Strong, Sammy, stronger'n any old machine..." 

Dean holds him down, a hand locked on his hip, the other ruthlessly stripping his cock, until Sam's limbs turn to lightning.  He can feel the cum boil up, up, up and finally erupt.  He's spilling and shaking, thrashing against Dean, shouting, moaning, vision too blurred to even see his reflection clearly. 

When Sam comes back into himself, he's sprawled against his brother.  He's even got two of Dean's fingers in his mouth.  "Hadda shut you up somehow,"  Dean says fondly, as he tugs the ribbon off Sam's wrists.  Sam can't think of anything to say to that.  He's too relaxed to think of anything at all, so he mindlessly suckles Dean's fingertips. He lets his own fingers wander between his legs.  His hole is warm and puffy around the machine's dick, still inside him.  His hips jump with aftershocks, but his little cock stays soft.  He's empty, wrung-out..."safe," he says, croaking around Dean's fingers.  "'M safe, now."  He's thinking of incubi and succubi, but also of how good it feels to have Dean's arms around him.

Dean smiles down at him. "Sure, buddy.  Always safe with me."

 

 

 


End file.
